Anastasia and the Potter Legacy
by The Breeze
Summary: Voldemort is ancient history. Harry Potter is dead, assassinated as he tried to rebuild the Wizarding world. Years later, his daughter comes forth to avenge him and free England.
1. Declarations

Anastasia and the Potter Legacy

Chapter One – Declarations

There are those that say it was all Draco Malfoy's fault – mostly fools, who make their claims from the safety of foreign lands.

They are quieter then they used to be, thankfully. I suppose they see that true English wizards and witches are dying to liberate their birthright, and perhaps they have finally been shamed into silence.

Or, maybe, they're just scared of Draco. He was a mythical figure for so long, but recent events have made it very clear that Malfoy is still very much alive, gleefully spreading terror throughout the crumbling remains of the parasitic organism that passes for a government in Wizarding Britain.

I'm hardly one to talk, really, being a mythical figure myself. The world no longer doubts that Draco Malfoy is largely responsible for the near-total collapse of the "Wizarding Republic of England" - but few believe that I exist, and fewer still comprehend that Draco now answers to me.

It wasn't Draco's Malfoy's fault. Anyone who says otherwise is welcome to discuss the matter with me at wandpoint.

The fall of the Ministry of Magic and the subsequent barbarism that swept Wizarding England has many root causes.

Sometimes, objectively, I step back and ponder that perhaps my father bears a greater share of responsibility for the fall of the nation he served and led. He was terribly, terribly young, a great wartime leader but quite frankly bored by the intricacies of running a government that appeared to be at peace.

Draco won't allow any discussion of my father being responsible for the Troubles. Sometimes, I think I have a much more balanced view of my father than he does. Part of me resents that; Draco can afford to forget my father's flaws, - I don't have that luxury.

Assuming I prevail in my bid to take back England, I must know where my father went wrong. I don't want to meet his fate. I will not make the mistake he made, winning the war and losing the peace.

This is what I tell people on the rare occasions they hear me arguing with Draco about the past.

The truth is more complicated. I love Draco for his blind, unswerving devotion to my father's memory. Draco is too Machiavellian and just too damned good at winning to be ignorant of my father's faults – and since he was truly my father's enemy for so long, he knew the good and bad of my father in a way that few others can understand – even me.

Come close, and I will tell you a secret. I'm a fraud. Those that believe I exist see me as some sort of youthful warrior-princess, fighting to avenge her murdered family, an all-knowing, mysterious witch, just waiting for the right moment to move my chess pieces into position before striking a death blow to the movement that slaughtered nearly everyone I ever loved.

Let them believe that. It's certainly true that I have a knack for strategy, perhaps inherited from my Uncle Ron. And, I certainly have more than my share of blood on my hands – although those who have perished by my wand or at my orders always deserved their fate. None of that really matters, for deep down, part of me stopped growing when I was ten. I may be older than my father was when he died, but in reality, I am, and always shall be, a scared ten-year-old girl who was helpless to prevent her Daddy and Mum and brothers and sisters from being murdered.

Harry Potter is not the Martyred Boy-Who-Lived to me, he is not the slain Chosen One who Vanquished Voldemort, he is not the Protector of the Wizarding Realm of Greater Britain – he was my Daddy, and I loved him, and I love Draco Malfoy because he will rip the throat out of anyone, save me, who dares suggest my father was flawed in any way.

I'm tired of the lies, and tired of the secrets. It's well past the time to set the record straight.

There are those who say that the "Wizarding Republic" had noble aims, and that many good people served it, and that we who fight for the freedom of England act without authority, or morals, or hope.

None of those morons and idealists know what really happened when the Republicans took over.

I do.

I was there.

And as for authority, I have that as well, for I claim the throne of my father.

My name is Anastasia Potter.

This is my story.


	2. Refuge

Chapter Two – Refuge

Santa Barbara is beautiful in the summer.

I should have left a long time ago – the uniform of what Draco calls my "secret Muggle identity" lies folded neatly on top of my suitcase in the lodge house. I'm stalling, and I know it, but for the first time in a long while, I don't want to don the black and white uniform that gets me discretely into the country of my birth.

It's strange. Even though I don't officially exist, I know that the faltering, cumbersome buauracracy of the Wizarding Republic is still watching for unauthorized Apparations to England, and covertly watching the British airports for wizards and witches trying to pass for Muggles.

Silly fools. The choked, claustrophobic nature of the airports mean that they can detect magical folk flying – coming in or out of the country – but they don't have the resources to worry about cruise ships. They're so concerned with trying to stop their own people from fleeing the hell that they created.

They should be watching the crew boarding gangways used by cruise ship workers.

No one questions a young waitress who regularly sails back and forth to the States working for the only cruise line still operating across the Atlantic.

I like being a waitress. I like drifting among the tables, catching bits of conversations, and chatting with the many friendly people who I will never see again, but who remind me that there is much good in the world – for my idle conversations reveal a basic truth; most of the people in the world just want to be friendly and live their lives.

On a cruise ship, people always have time to be pleasant to strangers, even people who are being paid to serve them.

The simple truth is that being treated as a person – or a waitress, to objectify it more – allows me to forget what I really am, even if it's for a brief time.

I am a Head of State, albeit unrecognized.

I am a killer.

I am a twenty-four year old woman, who has been hiding in one form or another for fourteen years, and who bears the weight of a nation on her shoulders.

When I was younger, I vowed I would free England, by myself if I had to.

I was a fool. I know now that without Draco to help me, I would have crumbled long ago under the pressure.

Draco couldn't do it by himself either, despite his best efforts. He fought for ten years, underground, but couldn't dislodge the enemy.

Now, together, we are winning. But it is so, so tiring.

I belong in England. But I have to admit, I'm only truly happy when I'm playing the waitress, not thinking about the still unfinished task before me.

That's not quite true, I suppose. I love this old ranch, high in the mountains above Santa Barbara. It's perfect for me, secluded and beautiful, relaxing and quiet. Once upon a time, many years ago, a famous American actress owned it and turned it into a children's camp. I've seen pictures of what it was like then, stored away in a forgotten shed, dozens of happy kids smiling and laughing. The children have been gone for decades, but sometimes I imagine I can still hear them playing and running, like I used to do before my family was taken from me.

I walk further away from the ancient lodge house, down the path to the private lake. I know I should be leaving, but I can't quite bring myself to leave. I know that the final battle is coming, and part of me is scared that something will happen.

Forget what you read in the history books about fearless leaders. Winston Churchill was reputed to have said that "nothing quite invigorates one like being shot at and missed." Well, dear old Winnie may have saved England, but he was a damned bloody fool if he really said that.

I don't know about Winston, but I want to live. Desperately.

Sometimes I think I could stay here – Draco would join me, I think, if I asked. These thoughts, these moments of weakness, always come right before I leave my refuge, here in California.

"You haven't been back for long. You could skip this trip and catch the next one, if you really need to recharge your batteries, so to speak."

I whirl around at the ethereal voice I know so well, not surprised to see the strange but wonderful woman who has been my parent, my sister, my friend.

The years have been kind to Luna Lovegood. Even though we witches age more slowly than Muggles, she is an exceptional case. In her early forties, she looks a couple of years older than me. She often passes as my sister, and I admit sometimes I get a bit irritated when occasionally someone actually thinks I am the older one.

"I can't wait any longer. It's almost over, and I want to see Draco again."

Luna nods. She's quieter than she used to be – we have suffered, she and I, both losing our families and most of the people we once cared for.

"Walk with me, Anna."

I say nothing, and walk with Luna in silence away from the lake, down a different path that leads to an abandoned theatre that the children used to put on shows.

It took a crazy American actress to combine horses, sheep and pigs with the performing arts and build a children's camp around the concept. It took Luna to see the signs of change in England, and to discretely disappear before things got bad.

Once, children came here to play and learn. I came here to survive, the only surviving daughter of Harry Potter.

I knew Luna was my godmother, but I never dreamed of the sophistication of the spells used to protect me. My father – or my mother, or maybe Draco – must have had some idea that things could get bad.

It's a shame they got worse than anyone could dream, more quickly than anyone could have imagined. I miss my sisters.

And my brother. My perfect, helpless, sickly brother. He was only eight, yet he was so mature and kind. Boys of that age can be perfect prats, I've since learned, but he was...he was special.

My reflections on the past, and on the long dead are diverted by curiosity. I haven't been to the old theatre much – it's kind of a wreck – and I wonder why Luna is leading me here. The door frame is twisted, deformed by some person long ago who had used a crowbar to pry a plaque off the wall next to the door.

Luna gives up trying to force the door and uses her wand. We step over piles of insulation that have fallen from holes in the ceiling, and I watch in puzzlement as she starts rifling through cabinets, muttering to herself.

Finally, I hear her exclaim, "Oh!" and hear a metallic scrape as she tugs on something. A moment later she is holding the biggest sword I've ever seen in my life, which looks decidedly out of place in her two dainty hands.

"What the bloody hell is that thing?"

Luna smiles at me, and says, "I'm not quite sure, but I think it's the sword of Godric Griffindor. I thought you might care to take it with you when you go back to England."

I stare at Luna, open mouthed in shock, and I realize that for the thousandth time, Luna has said something totally unbelievable.

Except, this time, I believe she is speaking the gospel truth.


End file.
